


Boxes

by makesmefree



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, At least until the border then I do my own thing, Canon Compliant, Care packages, Drunk Dialing, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, Gallavich Endgame, Happy Ending, Ian Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich Friendship, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher Misses Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher and Mandy Milkovich are Best Friends, Ian gets his mans, Ian still loves Mickey, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mexico, Mickey Milkovich Misses Ian Gallagher, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Episode: s07e11 Happily Ever After, Sad Ian Gallagher, Sad with a Happy Ending, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 01:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesmefree/pseuds/makesmefree
Summary: REVISED, REPUBLISHED VERSION OF AN OLD FIC!!! IT'S BETTER NOW!!"Ian lied to Mickey when he said “This isn’t me” and he was lying to Mickey when he said “I can’t”. Ian was lying because it was him, and he can. Ian was lying because the best version of himself had always been the one that loved Mickey. The greatest thing Ian had ever done was love Mickey, so of course he could’ve crossed the border with him. Of course he fucking could’ve. Even more than that, he should’ve."ORIan deeply regrets his decision to leave Mickey at the border, and contemplates what to do about this once he is back in Chicago.All he comes up with is the idea to send Mickey a care package. But of course, this isn't enough. So then he does something more.





	1. No One Does It Better

**Author's Note:**

> As you may or may not know, this is NOT a new fic. This is simply a republished, edited version of an old fic. A while back I published this post-border fix-it with a certain idea in my head about how I wanted it to go. I was frustrated because this idea wasn't translating well onto the paper, but I have revisited and revised the idea with much better results. I am putting the story back up, because it is now progressing in a way that I like.  
> That being said, new readers welcome and disregard everything above. And old readers, give it another shot. It's better now, and you'll love the ending, which is what I worked hard to make happen properly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian gets home to Chicago, but all he can think about is how he wishes he was in Mexico. He contemplates this, talks to Lip and Fiona about it for a little while, and then calls someone he misses.

Ian Gallagher couldn’t stop blatantly lying to himself.

He was lying about being content with Trevor, he was lying about feeling secure in his current lifestyle, and he was lying about truly having his mental health under control.

He was lying about all of this, and he was lying to Mickey. And lying to Mickey, Ian thought, was even worse than lying to himself.

Ian lied to Mickey when he said “This isn’t me” and he was lying to Mickey when he said “I can’t”. Ian was lying because it was him, and he could. Ian was lying because the best version of himself had always been the one that loved Mickey. The greatest thing Ian had ever done was love Mickey, so of course he could’ve crossed the border with him. Of course he fucking could’ve. Even more than that, he should’ve.

As he jogged up the front porch steps of the Gallagher house, Ian tried to divert his thoughts away from the truth. He shook his head in attempts to free it from thoughts of Mickey, and prepared to retreat back into a routine of denial. Ian thought that if he told himself that this was all for the best long enough, he would start to believe it was. 

Ian opened the door, which was constantly unlocked, and entered the kitchen to see only Lip and Fiona, their eyebrows were raised toward the incoming guest.

“Ian?” Lip asked.

“Yup.”

“Hey.”

There’s a pause, and the unanswered questions take up more space in the room than oxygen. Ian speaks again, hoping to clear some of them. The complexity of it all is starting to give him a headache.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me where I was?”

“I know exactly where you were,” Lip answers, and Fiona nods at the ground. Ian says nothing for a moment, and just stares through his older brother. Plastered on Lip’s face is that ever-present, slightly pompous expression that screams ‘I know more than you think I do’ and ‘I’m always right’. What irritated Ian most about this look was when it was accurate, especially in this case.

“You were with Mickey, weren’t you?” Lip asks, but it isn’t phrased like a question at all. Ian curses softly under his breath at this.

“Well,” Lip continues “Am I wrong?”

“You just get off on being right, don’t you? You fucking asshole.”

“Ian, watch it,” Fiona warns. Ian closes his eyes so she won’t see him rolling them.

Lip just shrugs. “I assume that, if you’re here all alone, he’s somewhere else?”

“Precisely, genius boy. Couldn’t be more elsewhere.” Ian confirms, going to the fridge in search of a beer. When he doesn’t find one, he curses again.

“It’s good that you came back, Ian. Really. You have Trevor, you have a stable job, and you were managing things in a way that some people, with and without hurdles like your bipolar, are never lucky enough to figure out,” Fiona says.

Ian scoffs at the irony. If only she knew truly how he was "managing"— which, without Mickey, had been hardly at all. Ian was excellent at appearing to feel a certain way, but none of that correlated with his true emotions. On the interior, Ian was drowning, but no one knew. No one knew because on the exterior he was showing them all how decently he could float.

On the inside, Ian loved Mickey. Any feeling aside from that was numbness or darkness. Any new potential happiness fell short in comparison to what Ian felt with Mickey. Additionally, fate had fallen short. Because Ian knew better than the universe did, better than anyone did, that he needed to be with Mickey.

“Monica’s dead, you know?” Lip added in for good measure. Ian nodded shortly.

“You wanna know what I think?” Lip asked Ian.

“I know you’re gonna tell me what you think anyway.”

“I think that Mickey had the potential to become Frank,” Lip said. “And you had the potential to become Monica.”

Fiona bit her lip at the bluntness, but said nothing.

Ian wasn’t religious, but he prayed to any God that could possibly exist that Lip would shut up. Ian knew that, like all the empty prayers he’d ever sent, this one was bound to be fruitless. Lip continued.

“When you were first diagnosed and spent those few days in the psych ward, Mickey got shit-face wasted. The whole damn time. And when you got back, he didn’t even come see you at first, Ian. There was no reason for him to wait as long as he did, but he did. He didn’t return until it was convenient for him. It really should’ve been about what you needed in that moment, but it wasn’t. It never has been. Because Mickey’s never known what you needed. And at that point you had no clue either, which made for a very toxic relationship,” he ranted.

“Ian, Mickey’s not right for you and you know it,” Fiona piped up. “The passion might be there, but it’s not healthy or practical. And when you have passion without security like that…Then well, Lip’s kind of right. You could become Frank and Monica. Can you understand that?”

Fiona gazed at Ian, trying to convey sympathy. Her eyes looked too flat and glazed-over to be sincere. Lip, for his part, seemed oddly pleased with himself at the conclusion of their tag-team spiel. Ian, on the other hand, was fuming. He could see the corners of his eyes clouding in anger and felt his wrists aching with the urge to swing at his brother. Lip liked to think he knew everything, and simultaneously liked to think he knew what was best for each member of the Gallagher family. When it came to Mickey and Ian though, Lip knew next to nothing. That much became increasingly evident as he talked about how much he thought he knew.

Firstly, Mickey was the furthest thing from Frank. Ian knew that with every ounce of his being. Even if he couldn’t appreciate it at the time, Mickey took care of Ian in a way that no one else could or even really tried to. Mickey spared no amount of time or energy looking after Ian, trying to get him to take his meds, and above all, loving him. Even when Ian’s face was sickly pale and his eyes were heavy with the weight of feeling nothing at all, Mickey loved him. Even when Ian was at his worst, Mickey told him he was beautiful repeatedly, and meant it every time. Mickey was the one to brush Ian’s hair out of his face and kiss his forehead, to whisper ‘it’s okay’ to him when everything seemed the furthest from it. Mickey was the only one that could make Ian feel through the numbness. And what he felt was a love more powerful than what most people get graced with in their entire lifetimes.

While it may have been difficult for Ian to grapple with at the time, it was becoming clearer and clearer to him every day how much Mickey truly loved him. Mickey wasn’t Frank. And if Mickey was, none of this would be happening. Either that, or it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much.

_Take your pills, bitch._   
_No caffeine. Not on your meds._   
_I didn't know which Bs to get, so I just got all the fucking Bs._

And Ian wasn’t Monica. The illness he inherited from her may connect the two in the most twisted way possible, but that didn’t negate the fact that Ian just wasn’t his mother. There was a multitude of things that separated Ian from Monica. For one thing, Ian had a true sense of determination and dedication to things— like he had with his army training and currently has with his EMT work. Even when things went wrong or were complicated by his disease, Ian always remained dedicated to them. A flame of energy in his heart never went out in this sense. In this way, Ian’s heart was made of things very different than Monica’s, despite the similar chemical imbalance of their brains.

But Ian’s heart was very different from Monica’s for another reason. That reason was the fact that it fostered his unwavering love for Mickey. It was true that no one could ever fix Ian. But someone could love him unconditionally while he tried to fix himself, and no one does that better than Mickey Milkovich. 

Ian didn’t deny that Frank loved Monica, and Monica loved Frank. However, he was also certain that the way he and Mickey loved each other was entirely different. Frank could never look Monica in the eyes and say sickness, health, all that shit. And if he could, his every syllable would be a lie. Ian knew Mickey was telling the truth.

And what had Ian done in return? Said "I can't" when he could. Ian hated himself for lying to Mickey at the border, since Mickey had always been the realest and truest it ever got for Ian. And he was still the realest it might ever get.

And god damn it, Ian hated Lip right now for opening his fat mouth.

“Shut the fuck up!” Ian screamed at Lip abruptly, grabbing his shirt and pinning him against the wall. “Listen the fuck up to me, Lip,” Ian spat. “I’m not Monica, and Mickey’s certainly not Frank. You think you know everything about everyone, but if you were as smart as you claim to be, you would’ve gathered at the very least an inkling that Mickey loves me. Loves me so much, Lip. Loves me more than I deserve.”

Ian had expected Fiona to yell, to come between the boys, just to react somehow. But she did nothing and said nothing.

Lip said also nothing for a moment, just breathed calmly and evenly. That pissed Ian off. Everything was pissing Ian off, especially the fact that he was standing in his kitchen instead of on a beach in Mexico, fingers gripping the worn cotton of Lip’s shirt instead of being laced around Mickey’s hands.

“Ian,” Lip said, calm as his inhales had been. “Mickey might love you, but do you love Mickey?”

Ian released Lip from his grip and shoved him slightly.

“Fuck you,” Ian told Lip, turning toward the stairs. He started up the first three, and got hit with a dizzy memory of Mickey, guiding him up the same steps when Ian felt too upset and out of his body to feel his legs. Too sad to walk.

“Fuck you, Lip,” Ian repeated. “Of course I love him.”

Lip went to say something in response, but Fiona stopped him. Held him back, and murmured something that Ian couldn’t fully make out. But it sounded vaguely like _I believe him._

Once in his room, Ian crawled into his bed. He didn’t want to tell Trevor he was home, or anyone else for that matter. The more people Ian told that he was back in Chicago, the realer it became that he wasn’t with Mickey.

Ian stared at the burner phone on the bedside table. He thought about how funny it was that, in order to fall asleep, people first pretend to be asleep. He wondered where Mickey was pretending, and how real it felt.

For what felt like hours Ian watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. It never did, and Ian knew he didn’t deserve it to. 

Ian picked up his actual phone and turned it over in his hand a few times. He then decided he could call someone. Someone he really, really missed. He flipped the phone open, dialed a number he knew by heart, and pulled the phone up to his ear.

“Ian?”

“Hey, Mandy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. It's a little sad and angsty now, but I promise good love and fluff is on the way for our boy Mickey.


	2. Coming Up For Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian speaks to Mandy on the phone, and she guides Ian toward deeper truths about himself and his relationship with Mickey. After the phone call, Ian breaks up with Trevor and begins making a care package for Mickey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I already have these edits done, figured I'd republish at the same time as chapter 1. Chapter 3, which is fully new material, will be out soon.

The reason for Ian’s call to Mandy was, at its roots, a cry for help. A cry for Mickey. This truth made Ian feel a little shitty for a multitude of reasons. For one, he hated himself a little bit when he considered the fact that he hadn’t spoken to Mandy very recently prior to this. Sure, they texted every so often, and stayed in touch on social media, but never actually conversed as often and as substantially as Ian knew they should. And even though he was speaking to Mandy now, Ian had really called for Mickey. That would become clear to them both— crystal-clear as the Mexican waters— soon enough.

They both knew deep down that Ian needed Mickey like he needed to breathe. And while Mandy would never deny him of the chance to come up for air, Ian still felt shitty. He felt like he was using his best friend. He wanted to make it up to her later. Soon. Whenever he could.

Another reason Ian felt apprehensive about his call was the cowardice it was laced in. Ian could’ve called Mickey instead. And while that wouldn’t have been the easiest thing to do, it would’ve been the right thing to do.

But Ian had no idea what to say to Mickey. He had no idea what to say, aside from that he needed him. He was worried that if he did call Mickey, the words would become muddled and bleed into each other, preventing Ian from saying what he really needed Mickey to hear, and what Mickey deserved to hear. Ian felt like he’d said the wrong thing to Mickey so many times. He had grazed Mickey’s ears with heartbreak and weighed his heart down with undeserved heaviness far too many times.

If— no, not if, when— Ian talked to Mickey again, he decided, he’d know how. The next time he talked to him, he’d tell him he loved him. He would tell him the things he’d always meant but never said. Ian would tell Mickey about all of the times and ways he loved him but had failed to explicitly say so.

But Ian didn’t know how to get to Mickey, and he knew he didn’t deserve to find him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

He’d never stop trying to find Mickey, and so when (not if) he did, he was going to tell him he loved him over and over again.

“Mandy. I miss you. And, um, I need your help.”

Ian and Mandy first talked about her. They talked about her for over an hour, and each time Mandy tried to shift the conversation toward Ian he’d divert it right back to her. They laughed, they chatted, and Ian even gave her relationship advice (which was bitterly ironic). By the time the second hour had ticked by, Mandy interjected with a

“Wait, wait. Let’s talk about you for a second, Ian. Didn’t you call saying you needed my help?”

“Yeah, but that’s no big deal. We can talk about it tomorrow…” Ian said. He wasn’t sure why he said it, because he wasn’t sure he could live to see tomorrow without a plan to see Mickey again. These days, Ian found his mouth leaking a lot of words that his heart didn’t mean.

“Fat chance,” Mandy told him. “You’re not getting out of this one. I heard the tone of your voice when you called me. I know you Ian, and I can tell this is something very important to you. I know it’s been a little while, but you’re still my best friend. And I can read you like you’re my best friend.”

“Mandy. I really just called so I could talk to you. Honest,” Ian lied.

“No you didn't,” Mandy insisted. “You’re lying. What’s going on?”

“I was with Mickey,” Ian said. He couldn’t control those words either, but it was a different lack of control. It was much faster, much more like an escape. And unlike a lot of other things he’d told others and himself recently, it was the truth.

It was one thing for Ian to let the truth swim around his head without ever floating to the surface, but it was entirely another to speak it out loud to Mandy. To tell Mandy he was with Mickey. To tell Lip he loved Mickey, just a few hours ago. And to tell himself, over and over, that he would probably love Mickey forever.  
Mandy breathed for a beat. Evenly, just as Lip had downstairs just a few hours ago. “I know, Ian,” she said.

“Y—You what?” Ian stammered. He’d tripped over his words remembering the night he and Mickey laid under the stars. The night Mickey, looking like his eyes stole the moonlight and just being so goddamn beautiful, had confessed so much to Ian. And one of those things he said was something along the lines of you were there for me more than my family ever was. Ian knew this applied primarily to Mickey’s father, and perhaps even to his brothers’ ‘every man for himself’ attitude. But Ian couldn’t link this phrase to Mandy, because he knew Mandy cared. Despite anything that happened, Mandy harbored so much love in her heart, including love was for Mickey. It seemed impossible for Mickey to not know that love existed. Then Ian put the pieces together and realized they must have been in touch. So Mickey did know Mandy cared. Even more than that, Mickey cared about Mandy too. “Have you been talking to Mickey?” Ian asked, though he’d figured out the answer.

“Yes. He told me he was with you, and he told me he was safe. And most recently, he gave me an address. I know where he is.” Mandy confirmed.

“You and I, Ian,” Mandy added. “We’re really the only ones from his past that he talked to when he got out.”

Ian didn’t like being referred to as Mickey’s past. Not when all of his feelings for Mickey were still so present. Not when he yearned for a future with Mickey.

“You and I, Ian,” Mandy repeated. “He _loves_ you,” She stated with incredible firmness.

Ian’s throat closed in on itself, preventing words from coming out.

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“I— I just can’t be right now.”

“Bullshit, yes you can,” Mandy protested. “I know you. It’s not impossible. You’re Ian Gallagher, and when you really want something, it’s not impossible. Never has been before, and certainly isn’t now.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m going to get out of my bed right now and drive to Mexico? You know I can’t say that Mandy. You know I can’t,” Ian’s voice was raising an octave, and cracking. Mandy knew this meant the tears were coming.

“Just try again,” she coached softly.

Ian swallowed. “I love him,” he said again. “I love him Mandy,” Ian repeated, his voice shaking and bending around the words. Words that had finally escaped after being locked up for the wrong reasons. Words that were now fugitives on the run, hopefully toward something. Anything. Everything. “I love him, and I’ve been lying to myself about that for way too long.”

“And there you go,” Mandy said. She let out a breathy sigh. “Ian Gallagher. You gotta go get him.”

“I can’t.”

“Goddammit, yes you fucking can. Of course you can.”

“On paper, of course I can,” Ian agreed. “But I have a job to worry about. A family to worry about. My mental stability to worry about. I love Mickey, but I still have all of this stuff that prevented me from running away with him in the first place.”

“And out of all of that stuff, are any of those things more important to you than Mickey? Truly, positively, 100% more important?”

“Please don’t make me answer that,” Ian said, desperation clawing at his voice.

“I won’t,” Mandy agreed. “Because we both already know the answer.”

“You said you have the address, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I could mail him something? Or would that be a bad idea? I wouldn’t put a name on it, obviously, and I could mail it through a certain way, do my research you know…But, would he get mad?”

“He doesn’t need a care package, you idiot. He needs you.”

“This is all I can do for now,” Ian said, the desperation consuming even more of his tone than it had before. “Please Mandy.”

Mandy sighed for what seemed like the eightieth time. Ian didn’t know if it was him making her feel like this. He hoped not. He hoped it was only the circumstance. “I’m gonna give you the address, okay? Get a pen. Make sure nobody is listening to you.”

“Wait,” Ian said.

“What?”

“I better check behind my shower curtain for the Russian spies that hang out there sometimes. And cover up the front camera iPhone so that my FBI agent doesn’t hear this one.”

Ian could hear Mandy smiling through the phone. He felt a little more okay than he had all night when he heard her laugh. “Fuck you, Ian,” she giggled.

***

It had been two weeks since Ian got off the phone with Mandy, two weeks since he nearly punched Lip in the face, and two weeks since he left the love of his life at the border. Two weeks had also passed since Monica’s funeral.

Ian had broken up with Trevor directly before those services.

Since returning to Chicago, Ian had consistently avoided as much human contact as possible, especially with Trevor. The most he’d done was texted him, a terse, emotionless message.

_I was out of town for a few days. Home now. Can’t explain over text. Talk to you in person soon._

Trevor had replied with a string of texts, all of which proclaiming that he was happy Ian was safe, that he wanted to see him that he wanted to talk to him, and that he wasn’t mad. He was being patient and careful and understanding and Ian didn’t want any of it. Ian didn’t want the easy kind of love that waited. He craved difficult. He wanted the kind of love that crossed borders and escaped prisons. He didn’t answer Trevor, and didn’t engage with him again until he showed up on his porch the morning of Monica’s funeral services.

Fiona had answered the door, and once she saw who it was had damn near dragged Ian to it. Whether or not she was Trevor's biggest fan was beside the point. She just wanted Ian to talk to him. She wanted to pull Ian back into his routine, away from the cycle of sadness and missing Mickey that he was quickly falling into.

Coming face to face with Trevor, Ian just stared blankly right through him. Trevor alternated from looking at the ground to looking at Ian’s feet. Never in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry about your mom. That must’ve been really hard,” Trevor said.

Ian just nodded in agreement. It was hard. Ian and Monica shared a strange connection that even Ian himself couldn’t define. There was no denying that Ian was struck by an undefinable sort of grief in this sense. And it was hard.

“Yeah,” Ian breathed. But as hard as it may be, it wasn’t what was consuming his mind right now. It wasn’t the hardest thing, and it wasn’t at the forefront of his existence.

“I was with Mickey,” Ian said abruptly. He saw his words pierce through Trevor’s heart. He felt bad. Not for hurting him, but for how hard it was to care.

“We don’t need to get into that right now,” Trevor said, even though they did. “I just want to be here for you. Go to the service with you.”

“I think it’s better if you don’t. For both of us,” Ian said.

“I’m having a little bit of a hard time believing you know what’s good for either of us,” Trevor replied, dropping the sickly sweetness that had formerly been dripping from his lips.

“I guess I don’t,” Ian admitted. “And you deserve someone that’s willing to work harder to find out.”

“Ian,” Trevor protested. “This isn’t you, come on.”

Those words hit Ian.

_This isn’t me anymore._  
_This isn’t me anymore._  
_This isn’t me anymore._

This isn’t me anymore, Ian had told Mickey. Even though during those quick moments he’d spent with Mickey, Ian had closer to himself than he had in a very long time. 

“Trevor,” Ian said through a tightly set jaw. “Who I was with you really wasn’t me.”

“What are you saying to me right now, Ian?”

“I’m saying that I was me when I was with Mickey. Outside of that I feel lost.”

“Then why are you home?”

Ian shrugged. “I don’t know. I have a lot to figure out. And maybe you shouldn’t be with me while I do that.”

“Maybe I definitely shouldn’t,” Trevor agreed. Ian couldn’t decipher whether his tone was hurt or harsh. “But I want to come with you to the funeral. Your mom was fucked up, but I really liked her.”

Ian let Trevor tag along. But during the service when he tried to place a hand on Ian’s leg, Ian recoiled faster than he knew was possible.

After the funeral, Ian continued through showing as little emotion as he could, clearly being a pale shadow of his former self. No one in the family seemed to think much of it. In fact, Ian had even overheard Fiona telling Debbie that Ian only “looks distant because Monica’s death hit him hard” and he would be “better soon”.

It was funny how people easily assumed that Ian and Monica shared some sort of soulful connection because of their disease. It was like saying two people with blonde hair would definitely be friends because of the shared hair color. In reality, Ian felt disconnected from Monica just as the rest of them did. Sure, they had a unique relationship, but unique didn’t mean Monica was the person who Ian loved and missed to a crippling extent.

Ian had been hit hard, this was true. Not by Monica, but by the fear of a future without Mickey Milkovich in it. Mickey was the greatest part of Ian’s past, and the most pressing part of his present.

All Ian was doing about this truth right now though was walking up and down the aisles of a convenience store, buying things to fill his care package for Mickey.

All Ian could hear was Mandy’s voice

_He doesn’t need a care package, you idiot. He needs you._

And all Ian did about that truth was walk toward the candy aisle, and pick up a Snickers bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Gets happier, like I said.


	3. Just Because We're Born Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian packs his care package to Mickey with Carl's help and sends it off. Mickey receives it, and comes into contact with Ian for the first time since he left him at the border. Following this, Ian calls Mandy and makes and important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reward for all of your reading, Mickey's back!! AlSO I'm pretty sure this work is going to be 4 or 5 chapters long. Whatever point it does finish at, I'm adding an extra chapter of fluff and happiness because that's what we all want and need.

"Who’s all that gay shit for?” Carl asked as Ian was packing his care package for Mickey.

Ian didn’t answer at first, and instead just placed the fuzzy blanket he’d bought Mickey inside the box.

“Iannnnnnn. Who’s it for?” Carl asked again, not letting up.

Ian caved. He still didn’t feel like he could really talk to anyone in the house, but once he could, he felt as though Carl would probably be the first.

Carl was understanding. And Carl liked Mickey. Even idolized him when he was younger, but that was besides the point.

“It’s a care package. For Mickey,” Ian told Carl honestly.

Carl just nodded, looked at the box, and looked up at Ian again.

“I know everyone thinks Mickey was no good for you,” Carl said. “But I don’t really agree. Mickey is a good guy. I feel like if everyone knew the full story, they’d be able to see that he didn’t deserve the sentence he got."

“He really, really didn’t,” Ian agreed. “He deserved a lot better than what life handed to him.”

Carl nodded. “Also,” Carl said “Mickey was the only one of your boyfriends to ever double as your best friend. I don’t know a ton about relationships, but I know one like that is rare and special. And you’re lucky to have had it.”

“I’m lucky to have had Mickey,” Ian said back, as much to Carl as to himself.

Carl saw Ian’s face contort a little bit at this. He was upset, Carl realized. So he stopped talking and instead helped Ian continue to pack the box.

That night Ian lied down to sleep, having done all of his research about the best way to go about sending his package to Mickey. However, as exhausted as he was, his racing heart and thoughts were keeping him awake.

There were words caught in Ian’s head, and none of them were his.

Mickey’s voice, of course, was at the forefront of his mind. Always the forefront. Even when he didn’t realize it, Mickey always with him, saying things like

_I thought I lot about you while I was in there._  
_I want you to come with me._  
_I love you._  
_It means we take care of each other._

Ian tossed and turned among his blankets, feeling utterly stuck in his bed, in his memories, and in a world without Mickey. He heard another voice then. It was Mandy’s.

_You know that just because we were born here, doesn’t mean we end up here._

He fell asleep at some point, into a light dreamless state.

Mailing the care package to Mickey was the first thing he did when he got up.

***

Ian wasn’t sure how many seconds, minutes, days, or weeks passed by before the burner phone rang. For him, time was blending together at a sluggish, bleak rate.

When the phone did ring, Ian jumped as time stopped and started all at once.

“Hello?” He tried carefully.

“Ian, it’s Mandy.”

“Mandy? Why are you calling the burner phone?”

“Because we’re going to be talking a lot about Mickey and where he is and… I don’t know, Ian! I don’t know how any of this should work. I’ve never had a brother be a fugitive in Mexico before!” She said.

“That you know of,” Ian shot back. “Wouldn’t be surprised if there were multiple.”

Mandy laughed in spite of herself at this, and continued. “Ian. Mickey got your package.”

“And?”

“He wants you to call him later today. So he can talk to you about it instead of through me.”

“Oh, Mandy, I don’t know…”

“Come the fuck on Ian. It’s time for you to grow a pair and talk to him instead of working through a sibling. You aren’t two eighth graders at a fucking middle school dance.”

“I don’t know what I’d say to him,” Ian admitted desperately. “There aren’t words for what I want to say to him.”

“What is it that you want to say to him?”

“I just… I want to…I need to tell him that I’m endlessly sorry. That I love him. And that nothing makes sense right now, but I love him enough to want to figure it out.”

“There. See? Those are words,” Mandy told him.

“I know but… I just don’t know if I can…”

“Ian. All these things that are holding you back? You and what you feel for Mickey are stronger than them. I promise you. Call him.”

And the line went dead.

Though he didn’t do anything with it for hours, Ian spent the rest of that day, afternoon, and evening clutching the burner phone. He didn’t call Mickey with it, he just turned it over and over again in his palm.

Night was growing closer, and Ian started to realize how eerily quiet the house was. He was home alone, he figured. And he didn't care enough to find out where everyone else was. 

He didn’t care about anything, expect for one pressing thing. He flipped the phone over again, and slid it open, without really realizing what he was doing. His heart was beating rapidly and his body felt like it wasn’t his own. But within all of that disconnected nervousness was a sense of something else. A sense of excitement at the chance to hear Mickey’s voice another time.

The phone rang three shrill, piercing times. And then the world stopped.

“Hello?” Mickey answered. There was a static twinge to his voice, and Ian silently cursed the phone lines for stealing the true nature of Mickey’s voice from him.

“Mickey. It’s Ian.”

“I know who you are, Gallagher.”

“Right. Um, did you get my package?” 

“That’s all you’re going to say to me?” Mickey chuckled. “Yeah, fuck-head, I got your package.”

“Did you— did you like it?”

“Look, it was nice, and thank you, but I don’t think you should send me anything again.”

“Did I not send it the right way? I did all my research and sent it as privately as I possibly could…I was certain it was going to be okay. Mandy said it was ok—

“Ian. You sent it safely and fine. The safety isn’t the problem.”

“Oh,” Ian said. “Then what’s wrong? Did you not like it?” Ian asked again. He felt his own blubbering stupidity as if he were an outside observer, unable to stop it. Finally talking to Mickey again had reduced his brain and conscience to mush. All he could do was feel, he couldn’t rationalize.

Mickey sighed. “I don’t know Ian. I didn’t want candy and blankets and magazines and shit. I wanted you.”

_He doesn’t need a care package, you idiot. He needs you._

Ian’s mouth went dry and his mind went blank. He wasn’t sure what to say, or what not to say. He wanted to tell Mickey that he was so lost, so still in love, and that he was sorry. So goddamn sorry. But as Ian opened his mouth, all of his words stayed trapped in his mind. Well, all but three words.

“I love you,” Ian told Mickey.

“Then why’d you leave me?”

The line went dead.

Ian kept the phone to his ear for a few minutes, listening to the dead air. Finally, he let out a choked sob. He sank off of the couch and onto the floor, sniffling heavily into the carpet. He cried and cried until he was crying more than he was breathing. When he was finished, he stood up, went to the kitchen, and started drinking.

At the rate he was going, it didn’t take long for Ian to get drunk. He’d been aiming to drown his feelings in a sea of alcohol, and was succeeding.

Like all Gallaghers, Ian was used to being a fun, partying drunk. He was accustomed to turning his music on high and dancing while the liquor coursed through his veins and sat warm in his stomach.

This time went a little differently.

This time, Ian’s sadness only magnified and was bogged down to a drunken pace. The sobbing restarted. Though the house was still empty and no one could hear him, Ian retreated to the privacy of his room.

He opened his bottom drawer and dug through it, pushing past unfolded t-shirts until he uncovered the bottom row. All the clothes in that spot had been stolen from Mickey.

Ian pulled out a sweater and drew it close to his face, smelling it. The tears kept falling, cold and heavy on his skin, which was raw from previous crying. He then climbed into his bed, snuggled up with the sweater and pulled the burner phone out of his pocket.

He dialed a number he’d always know by heart, no matter how much he drank.

“Ian?”

“Mickey,” Ian sobbed. “I love you so much.”

“Ian, please don’t—

“I love you so much, and I’m fucking drunk, but no matter how drunk I get, I love you so much!”

“Ian, you should get some sleep.”

“God, I am so _fucked up_ right now,” Ian whined.

“You sound like a sorority girl,” Mickey giggled in spite of the situation.

“Why are you laughing at me?" Ian whined again. "You hate me, don’t you. You hate me because I didn’t come to Mexico. That’s okay. I hate myself for not coming to Mexico too. I miss you so much. I wanna hold you so bad.”

“I don’t hate you, Ian,” Mickey said softly. “I really liked my package.”

“The package was fucking stupid,” Ian spat drunkenly. “You don’t need a care package, you need me. And I need you. I don’t know who I am without you.”

“Ian, why don’t you get some sleep, okay? We can talk tomorrow if you still want to.”

“I can't sleep Mickey!” Ian yelled. 

“Why not, baby?” Mickey asked, the old nickname leaving his lips in a surprisingly natural way.

“Because!” Ian sobbed.

“Because why?”

“Because you’re not here. Because I love you. Because I gotta tell you I’m so, so fucking sorry. I'll always be sorry.”

“It’s okay Ian. It’s alright. Luckily for you, I’ve never been able to stop forgiving you. No matter how hard I try. You’re under my skin, you fucking moron, remember?”

“I love it when you call me a moron,” Ian sighed sleepily. “I love you.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am tired.”

“I think you should try to sleep.”

“Okay,” Ian obeyed.

And Mickey stayed on the phone with him until he was snoring softly.

The next morning, the house was full again. Ian didn’t know where everyone came from, and he didn’t care to ask. He just wanted them to shut the fuck up, because his head was pounding with an awful hangover.

As he lied awake but unmoving in his bed, realization crashed over him like a breaking wave. He remembered he’d called Mickey, and though he couldn’t recall exactly what he said to him, he was certain it wasn’t pretty.

And then, as if on cue, the burner phone rang.

“Hello?” Ian said coarsely, tiredly.

“It’s Mandy.”

“Oh, hey,” Ian mumbled.

“You sound awful. Did you call Mickey?”

“Yeah. And I’m hungover, if you’re wondering how it went.”

“Jesus, Ian.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say to him? What did he say to you?”

“I said too much, but also not enough. And Mickey…Well, mostly Mickey said what you said. That he didn’t need the package, and that he needed me.”

“Yep," Mandy said, popping the "p" at the end of the word. 

“Mandy,” Ian began. “Do you remember what you said to me last time you saw me in person?”

“When we caught up over that dead body? I’m sure I said a lot of notable things.”

“The very last thing you said. Do you remember it?"

Mandy thought for a beat. “Yes, I do.”

“You said, ‘just because we were born here, doesn’t mean we end up here’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did say that. And?”

Ian took a second and listened to the sounds of the house around him. Of the creaking floorboards, of the siblings talking over each other. Of the arguing, but also the loving. Of the surviving, but also the living. Of the mistakes and of the rewards and of the lows and highs and of the laughter and the tears.

In this house, Ian had grown up falling asleep to the Southside lullaby of guns cocking and sirens singing. In this house, Ian felt loved and trapped and hurt and healthy all at once. It was beautiful in a twisted way. It was beautiful in a way that exists better as an endearing memory than it does as a state of living.

Especially when the great love of your life is in Mexico. 

Ian loved growing up and being shaped by the Southside. He loved how it made him the person he was, and how it introduced him to the most gorgeous piece of shit-talking, bitch-slapping trash that would ever exist.

Ian appreciated where he lived for everything it was. But he had to go.

“Just because we’re born here, doesn’t mean we end up here,” Ian repeated to Mandy now. “I gotta go to Mexico, Mandy. I gotta go get Mickey.”

***

A few hours later into the morning, after Ian and Mandy had finished their phone call, the burner phone buzzed shortly. The screen lit up, indicating that Ian had received a text from Mickey.

 ** _Don’t send me anything else_** , was all he wrote.

 _ **Okay**_ , Ian wrote back. _**But I have one more thing to give you. I’ll deliver it in** **person**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go bois, Ian's about to get his man in Mexico just like that. I can't wait to share the next chapter with you all, that's when shit starts to really go down.   
> Thank you to everyone that's supported by reading/bookmarking/commenting/kudosing (even though that's not a word). I appreciate my readers immensely. Everything I write, I write for you xoxo.


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